1
A PAPER AIRPLANE soared over the top of Harper Banks’s cubicle wall and bounced off her computer screen. She picked it up and unfolded it, then scowled. The plane had been made of what had to be the hundredth copy to circulate the office from her most famous pinup photo shoot for a custom motorcycle magazine. Disgust drove a hot flush across her skin.
“Ignore them, Harper.” Daniel Miller looked over his shoulder and shouted, “You guys cut the crap already!”
“Forget it, Daniel. They won’t stop. I’ve moved on.” A woman might think the universe would cut her a little slack for a slew of bad decisions, but no. No slack for her. She’d spent the past five years paying for blindly leaping for that elusive gold ring—and failing.
Her cell gave a Harley-like rumble, the ringtone she’d set for her dad.
“I need to take this,” she muttered, turning to face her desk. She swiped her thumb across the screen and propped the phone between her shoulder and ear so she could talk and type. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”
On the other end of the phone, the TV volume decreased and papers rustled. “How’s the IRS’s newest senior field investigator managing today?” her dad asked, gravelly voice rumbling from deep in his chest.
“Oh, you know—working to corral corruption and put bad guys behind bars.”
“Doin’ your job then.” He coughed. “You get your copy of Cycle Mania yet?”
“Nope. Hoping it comes in today. Anything good?” Harper tapped her user ID and password into the network portal, absently listening to her dad ramble about the latest innovations for the big choppers they used to work on together. An unexpected sensory memory swamped her and she could smell the rich exhaust of an old Kawasaki H1 500 engine, could feel the smooth glide of cloth over chrome.
She’d loved motorcycles since she was a kid, always interested in the hows and the whys. It had given her a connection with her dad, a way to gain his attention and earn his approval. When had he first let her near the machines he’d made his living from? Absently interrupting him, she asked. “How old was I when I started helping you out at the shop, Dad?”
He snorted. “Couldn’t a been more than four. Showed up with one a them Cracker Jack temporary tattoos on your arm, proud as hell and showing it off to all the guys. Without even asking, you grabbed a cloth and set yourself to polishing the tailpipes of that ’72 FLH Shovelhead Hardtail I was chopping. Like you were part of the crew. Had a soft spot for that bike ever since.” He paused, his breathing slightly labored from years of smoking. “It’s been a long time since I laid hands on anything that makes my heart speed up like that bike.”
“Good thing Mom’s not around to hear you say that,” she teased, clicking to open the desktop file labeled Beaux Hommes. She scribbled a couple of notes on a legal pad and switched the screen to her email inbox.
“She’s working overtime at the store this week,” he grumbled.
Harper knew just how much it bothered him that his wife had been forced to work at their local grocery store after the custom cycle shop her dad and his two brothers had built went under. Her old man had worked for as long as Harper could remember to design the next big thing in the motorcycle industry, always sure he was on cusp of some great financial payout. It had never come through. He’d been forced to start letting staff go just before Harper left for college, one man at a time. Two years after she’d graduated, he and his brothers closed the doors for good.
It had been just as much of a blow to Harper as it had been for her dad. She’d lived that dream with him, worked side by side to learn the trade, designing custom bikes, running the wrench or the paint gun, managing the books and, like him, always waiting for that one chance to make it big.
Which was why when her former lover, Marcus, offered to help her recognize the family dream, she’d jumped on board. And been screwed over.
Her email pinged. The sound jolted her from rapidly spiraling memories, and the phone slipped from her grasp. Fumbling, she caught it before it hit the desk and put the receiver to her ear. “Sorry. Got a little nostalgic for a second, Dad.”
“Nostalgic, my ass. You were thinking about Marcus. You ever hear he gets paroled, let me know. I may be old, but no one’s got to puree my peas yet, and my trigger finger’s still in fine shape.” The man’s hostility rolled over the line and through her consciousness, the familiar threat both soothing and terrifying.
“We’ve been over this, Dad. I’m a federal officer now, so no threatening to off anyone when we talk, yeah?”
“Some days I wish you’d joined the mafia instead of the IRS.”
“Funny guy.” She absently scanned the email that had just landed in her inbox and froze. It was what she’d been waiting for—the green light to move on the strip club. And she’d been named the lead investigator. Three months of subtle but hard work and endless hours of research had finally paid off. She was going to take these guys down.
She interrupted her old man. “I’ve got to go, Dad. Work’s calling. I’ll be out of town for a few days, but I’ll call soon.”
“Be careful, baby girl,” he said, voice husky.
“Always. Love you both.” She hung up, already out of her chair and in motion. Gathering the loose files on her desk, she shoved them and her laptop into her beat-up messenger bag. Daniel nearly ran her over as he charged into her cubicle as she headed out.
He grinned. “You get the email?”
“Yep,” she said with an answering smile. “I’m cleared for Seattle.”
“They’re giving you the lead on this one. It’s about time. You earned it.”
“Thanks.” She swallowed hard. “You’re still on the case, though.”
“Yeah. I’ll follow you in a week—sooner if you need me—and we’ll wrap up whatever you’ve got, get the local field office involved for cleanup and close the case. Standard fare, but this is your first time flying solo, Harper.” He studied her with a decidedly calculated look. “You cool?”
“Cool? Man, she’s colder than the Arctic in January,” a voice muttered over a near cubicle wall.
“You know, just because you have a dick doesn’t give you carte blanche to act like one,” she snapped. Still, the guy’s barb stung.
As the only female investigator in this division, she’d expected to have to smash some glass ceilings, but she hadn’t anticipated the outright animosity she’d faced from her peers and, in some cases, superiors.
Yes, she’d once been investigated herself by the IRS’s criminal investigative unit, but she’d been exonerated completely.
And seeing that process in action, observing the security with which the agents had done their jobs, had prompted her to pursue the kind of financial stability she’d never known growing up. Dreams were great, but they didn’t pay the mortgage or put food on the table. So she’d put her accounting degree to work for the very entity that had proven to her that policy and procedure could give her a different type of satisfaction.
Daniel,
